Love is This, Also Love is That
by RawrGodzirra
Summary: Arthur is a prostitute who can't see himself going anywhere else in life. Alfred is an aspiring police officer who has the world in his hands. A chance meeting could change both their lives for the better. Updating weekly.
1. Prologue: Beaty Never Lasts

**Love is This, Also Love is That**

**Prologue: Beauty Never Lasts**

_Love is the road that leads_

_Our souls to union vast._

_Love is the passion-storm_

_That sports with our vital dust._

…

Beauty was such a fleeting, trifling little thing.

It hardly seemed worth the effort to apply the makeup each day, to commit to a regiment of skin care (he couldn't really afford) just so he didn't end up like the other cheap whores on the street corner. Arthur rather enjoyed being a bit more classy than the others—it gave him the upper hand in sales, at least.

Yet, despite his efforts, each day Arthur looked it the cracked mirror on his wall, he saw another blemish, another scar, another line just waiting to wrinkle like burned paper if he ever saw the light of the sun again (he barely remember what it looked like). He'd become a creature of the dark, wandering and looking for prey in the forms of willing men with money weighing down their pockets.

Most nights, Arthur would turn out successful. Under the veil of night and sepia streetlamps, a lonely man, sometimes woman, would drag him along to nameless motels and inns. They would do what they wanted with him (naturally), and leave a wad of bills at the counter before he could even fully come to. Sometimes, they would even tip (What was he? A waiter? He hadn't had that kind of job since high school).

He realized, one pensive, lonely night many years ago, that his life was reduced to nothing but a blemish on lonely men's consciences, so much like the marks on his skin that were being left with age and experience.

He would give anything for that everlasting beauty that some had (those who lived highly) so that he could live his life in peace. He would no longer have to scrounge for rent money in a place overrun with rats and roaches. He would no longer remember the feeling of being hungry, of not having eaten in days, and with that, would no longer be able to trace the outline of ribs against his pale, moonlight-tanned skin. The cough that seemed so insistent on staying a part of his daily life would disappear like any normal cold, instead of festering into whatever chronic illness it had become.

A mere twelve years ago, this had not been his plan.

He had been so… _something_ many years ago—felt invincible, as teenagers were wont to do. Now, at the age of twenty-nine, he realized the folly in his arrogance. Who was he to believe that misfortune had no hold on him?

Yet, she had wrapped her cold hands around her neck, and in his haste and a poor choice (as well as naïve foolishness), he found himself under the yellowing light of approaching night, hoping for whatever change came his way.

He would give his greatest treasure (of which he had none) to find the secret to beauty, so that maybe, it could somehow lead him from this life he had stumbled upon. That maybe, like some fucked-up fairytale, he would be saved like a damsel in distress. Maybe become a real-life "Pretty Woman."

And yet, while he found himself wanting to loathe this lifestyle characterized by hunger and pain, he didn't have the energy to bring himself to. Hate was such a tiresome emotion, and he had spent so long musing and blaming everyone, including himself, that he had only dug himself deeper into the hole of destitution.

But there was no more time for musing—the sun was nearly down, and there were bills to be paid.


	2. Chapter One: Lost and Found

**Love is This, Also Love is That**

**Chapter One: Lost and Found**

Getting laid had never been a problem for Alfred F. Jones. Women flocked to him like gulls to a french fry left on the beach. It boosted his ego further every time he heard to previous one-night-stands arguing over who had the rights to him.

His little brother commented, once (back before he had disappeared into the night), that he puffed up like a little bird taking a bath when they would squabble over them like street dogs over leftovers.

He was also no stranger to excitement, always the man coming up with fun (and usually safe) plan for his weekends. He could have gone to several parties this weekend, or even had his own in his parents' house while they were out of town on business (theirs was much bigger than his own house).

But, he was responsible. One screw up, even a small party and getting a little bit drunk in public, could completely destroy not only his reputation, but his future aspirations to be an officer of the law. He had to be a good role model so that he could one day teach his children right from wrong, and maybe bring his wayward brother back home.

So, with all this in mind, to be honest, he had no idea what he was doing on this side of town—the so called "red-light district" (but he hadn't seen a working traffic light since he had entered).

It was quite terrifying, if he were completely honest with himself. He could have sworn he saw someone get gunned down in an alley (or maybe it was his overactive imagination), and he must have witnessed ten drug deals in the thirty minutes he had been driving.

Despite his morals, he had always had a fascination with the slums of town, wondering what it was like to be so free from the rules of society. He wondered what it was like to buy a woman for the night and own her in that way—did such a transaction make one feel more powerful? He wondered if the drugs that so many were addicted to were just as good as his little brother had claimed they were so long ago (before, at the tender age of fifteen, he had faded into the shadows and hadn't been heard from since).

He pulled over to the side of the road, making sure the windows were sealed tight and the doors were locked as he released the breath he forgot he had been holding. He closed his eyes, and went over the reasons for him being there—all the ones he had formulated in his mind seemed especially foolish now. He could lose his future, be killed—he heard these type of people could smell police officers or do-gooders from a mile away. That must have been why the streets were so empty, he thought mirthlessly.

A soft rap at the window jolted him out of his thoughts, and his baby-blue eyes connected with sharp green lined with dangerous black. It took him a couple seconds and a good hard look at thick brows to realize he was staring at a man. He thought about it for a moment, and when impatience began to shine in those emerald eyes, he rolled the window down.

"Can I help you?" Alfred asked politely.

Bitter mirth glittered behind kohl-lined eyes, "No," he replied, "I was wondering if you needed help. You've been parked here for quite some time." The voice was accented (although Alfred was having trouble tracing it), and there was something sinister lurking behind seemingly pleasant words.

Alfred looked around sheepishly, "Yeah, uhm… I was just collecting myself, y'know. Got a bit lost."

"I see," the man purred, though it seemed rehearsed. His voice wasn't unpleasant, a delicate tenor with an almost sophisticated edge to it, "I may not be able to help you with directions, but I can definitely help with… other things."

"Like… telling me where a gas station is so I can get directions?" Alfred asked, truly confused, and the man outright laughed.

"Think harder, Love." The stranger nearly giggled, a hollow, tinny sound, "It'll come to you."

Alfred stared at him dumbly for a moment, his brain taking its sweet time catching up with the words spoken to him. Oh… oh. _Oh_.

"You're a prostitute." He blurted without thinking. The man didn't seem fazed, so it must have been correct.

His retort was a dark, cheerless chuckle accompanied with the statement, "Not to sugar-coat it, yes." His eyes smoldered at Alfred, and the man in question felt his cheeks begin to burn, "So… are you interested?"

Alfred was stunned silent. Part of him—the one his mother raised to be a good citizen and uphold the law, which he now sought to protect—vehemently objected. Yet something in him, the part that _yearned_ to rebel against morals and so-called "proper" behavior, would not let itself go unheard. It banged against the bars of its cage like an enraged mountain gorilla.

The man wasn't bad looking—he didn't appear short or tall, with messy blonde hair and green, green eyes under (unattractive) thick eyebrows. He was wisp-like, and he could see his fingers were long and thin, as were his wrists. The sharp angles of his face made him look almost feline, with a sort of cat-like grace in his limbs as well. However, he looked sick—too thin, with dark circles, covered by makeup, bruising his eyes like a meth addict. Though he looked far to good for _that_ kind of drug.

He wasn't gay though—it went against everything he'd ever been raised to know. But, had he been into men, he was assure the mite of a man would probably not be his type—_while his skin appeared flawless, except for the bags under his eyes, and shone beautifully underneath the discoloring of the streetlight, making green eyes both greener and gold and casting him in an almost god-like sepia and maybe he was attractive_— he was far too thin and weak. He did not like to shake the sheets to find his lovers, or have to worry that he could break them with a simple embrace.

Plus, this was a prostitute! It was not only an illegal trade (he could take the sick looking man to the police right now, have him jailed and maybe sent to rehab), but he must have slept with hundreds of men by now. He looked young, but not immensely though. The thought of having sex with someone so… loose was disgusting, revolting, _vile_…

Yet, there was something so _tempting_ in those serpentine eyes.

He found himself at a conflicting crossroad. To experiment, or not to experiment? That was the question. A painful sounding cough reminded him that the man was still there. Common sense and rebellion were both tugging unceasingly at his brain, and he could see the jade eyes begin to glow with resigned disappointment.

Against his better judgment, Alfred unlocked the car door.

_Tbc…_

(( A/N: I'm hoping to get a few reviews on this! I have a couple more chapters worked out, but I'd love suggestions. Please be kind with criticisms though. ))


	3. Chapter Two: PickUps and Pleasantries

(A/N: Thank you for all the lovely reviews! This is a boring chapter, and I apologize for that. The next chapter will also be uploaded tonight to make up for that. The next chapters will come a little slower. Again, thank you all! )

**Love is This, Also Love is That**

**Chapter Two: Pick-Ups and Pleasantries**

Arthur was rather pleasantly surprised the man took him up on the offer. He had mentally prepared himself to be shot down pleasantly, and spend the night waiting for one of the typical variety of clients. The boy seemed rather dense and wholesome, but apparently, he was just as fucked up as the rest of the world was.

He climbed into the car gracefully, because no one really wants a hooker who lacks so much elegance that he manages to hit his head on the car door within the first few minutes (he learned that lesson the hard way).

He fastened the seatbelt and heard the door lock click into place, the car starting up with a healthy "purr."

"So," the boy broke the silence, causing Arthur to jump slightly, "I, uhm, have never done this—"

"I can tell." Arthur provided, but not unkindly.

A nervous chuckle was returned as the car shifted into gear and began to take the road back to the less questionable part of the city, "But, uhm, as I was saying… is there, like, some sort of etiquette to this? Like, am I supposed to call you something or…?"

"You can call me whatever you want as long as you're paying."

Another uneasy laugh, "I kinda would like to call you by your name…" the boy continued, and Arthur rolled his eyes discreetly.

"Pick a name. I'm sure you have good taste."

The answer didn't seem to satisfy the young man driving, but that was of little consequence. A few minutes passed in silence, "Well, uhh… my name is Alfred."

"Sure," Arthur answered distractedly as he stared at the lights that glowed past the window, instilling a bone deep dizziness in him. He shivered slightly as a chill raked his willowy frame, and the boy driving seemed to pick up on it.

"Do you want me to turn down the AC?" he asked shyly, already reaching for the dial.

"It's whatever you want, Love." A sigh met his response.

Fifteen more minutes were spent in uncomfortable silence, with only occasional hacks peppering the silence. Arthur began to doze off into a fantasy world of his mind's creations, whose contents were neither here nor there. He closed his eyes and immersed himself in the comfortable nothing that he'd created for times like this.

The car pulled off randomly with a soft jerk, and Arthur, coming back to reality, was suddenly aware that he had no idea where he was. He had a strange sense of disorientation, as he struggled to recognize the area. It was familiar, but distantly so. The car pulled into a small parking lot, and nestled itself into a space between two lines.

He looked at the large neon sign, and his brows furrowed, "You realize this isn't a hotel, correct?" Arthur asked the boy, humor in his voice. _Wouldn't that be a mistake to share with the children one day_? he thought derisively.

Alfred smiled genially, "I know, but you look hungry, so I figured you should eat something first." He offered.

Arthur looked at him, suspicion coloring his gaze, but he was rather hungry. With a shrug, he unhooked his seatbelt and stepped out of the car, waiting for Alfred to lead the way.

It was a cute little diner—your run-of-the-mill sixties replica with overweight waitresses over forty who treated you like you were her long-lost children returned from beyond. Among the flurry of elderly ladies, one young woman stood out.

She had long, wavy honey brown hair, and green eyes much like Arthur's own. She was thin and pretty and Arthur found himself immediately jealous when she trotted over, her apron showing off the delicate, attractive curve of her waistline and hair styled to accent her gentle, heart shaped face.

"Alfred!" she greeted, and her accent was definitely foreign, something Slavic, "I have not seen you in some time! Sit, sit!" she ordered, shooing them along to a table.

Alfred laughed at her treatment, and sat down, "Calm down, Elizabeta." He laughed, "I haven't come here in like… maybe a week?"

She didn't seem placated by the response, and ranted at him about something Arthur couldn't fully understand because of her intonation. He sighed and looked out the window as a menu was placed in front of him.

"Drinks?" she asked, giving a glare to Alfred, who had on a shit-eating grin in response. Arthur ordered water and Alfred ordered coke, and the waitress (Elizabeta, was it?) was off in a twirl of her green and white dress.

When silence engulfed them again in the talkative waitresses absence, Alfred decided to fill it up, "She's from Hungary. She and her boyfriend moved to the States about five years ago. He's a total conceited asshole, but she loves him, so I guess they're good together. She hits him with pans all the time to keep him in check."

Arthur feigned interest in the story, adding a nod and an, "I see," though he did feel vaguely sorry for aforementioned boyfriend.

Once the declaration of the waitresses history was done, Arthur began to speak, "So, _Alfred_," he drawled, "What do you plan on accomplishing by bringing me here?" he figured the question might as well be tossed out and left on the table. The boy may have been nice so far, but that always changed.

Arthur had expected some inane, hushed dirty talk, but instead was provided with, "Well, for one, I plan on accomplishing getting a good ol' fashioned cheeseburger." He grinned at that, and then added as an afterthought, "And maybe get your real name."

Such a statement had to make Arthur smile—no one had ever been so insistent in his many years of turning tricks, "I told you, Love, you come up with something. It'll make this more _personal_ or whatever."

Silence again, then suddenly Alfred declared, "British!" startling Arthur.

"Beg pardon?" Arthur coughed.

"I was trying to figure out what your accent was, and I just realized. You're British!" Alfred seemed almost giddy at the revelation, and was practically thrumming with excitement then. Elizabeta dropped off the drinks, and Alfred shooed her off, claiming they needed a few more minutes (Arthur had forgotten about the menu in front of him).

Arthur began to look through the menu, and Alfred still babbled, "That's pretty cool! Are you actually _from_ England or Britain or whatever?" he asked, reminding Arthur of a hyperactive puppy with a ball.

"You don't really need to know that, do you?" Arthur responded, his voice pleasant and rehearsed, "It won't do anything for the sex."

The boy frowned, spluttering slightly with embarrassment, "Well… I'm just curious, y'know? This all feels so… clinical, or something."

Arthur hid his rolling eyes behind them menu, "How old are you, Love?" he asked, though it wasn't as if he had young patrons before. It was more of a curiosity—the boy seemed incredibly inexperienced.

"Uhh… twenty."

Arthur coughed lightly, then cleared his throat and said, "Well then, you should be old enough to realize that you buy a prostitute because you want a one night stand without effort. Really, all this fanfare is unnecessary." Arthur sighed (but in all honesty, he was rather enjoying this attention—it was unusual), "You're going to get laid whether you buy me dinner and flowers or not, so why bother?"

The comment made the boy wince slightly, for what reason, Arthur didn't know, "Well, I dunno… because I'm bad at this whole 'impersonal' business?" Alfred provided lamely.

Arthur laughed shortly, "Clearly."

Elizabeta returned, and they placed their orders. Alfred stayed true to his claim and ordered a cheeseburger with fries and a pickle, while Arthur decided on a chicken basket (because he was too hungry to really know what he wanted).

They ate their meal in relative silence, Alfred piping up every so often to comment on the song playing on the overhead speakers, or make a comment on how Arthur ate like a bird (he managed to eat two of the six strips given to him, and decided long before Alfred finished that he would take the rest home).

When food and formalities were finished, the young Hungarian girl brought over the check. Arthur went to grab for his wallet when Alfred sprang forward to snatch the bill. He gave a triumphant laugh and held the little black book like it was Simba.

Arthur stared at the boy curiously, who inserted his check card with a grin, "I got it first." He gloated.

"I wouldn't have fought you for it." Was Arthur response, but Alfred's face remained proud.


	4. Chapter Three: Naivety is Bliss

**Love is This, Also Love is That**

**Chapter Three: Naivety is Bliss**

The check was taken and run through, the duo once again lapsing into silence as they exited the restaurant, Alfred holding the door open for Arthur politely.

They continued driving down the same strip of road for sometime in silence when Arthur, unsurprisingly, broke it with a sharp hack. Feeling he had efficiently broken the silence, he chose to breach an important point before they got too far.

"You realize you have no idea how much it costs."

"What?" Alfred replied dumbly.

Arthur sighed, "I assume you're not just picking me up for pleasant company."

"Oh, right!" Alfred exclaimed, "Uhm, I've got plenty. And there's no one else at the house, so we don't have to worry about getting a hotel."

Arthur raised a thick brow in indignant surprise, "You're taking me to your _house_? Are you dense?" he scolded, "For all you know, I could steal everything you own!"

Arthur could tell from the look on the other's face that he hadn't thought about that, but then it relaxed, "But, since you brought it up, I don't think you will. You seem to good for that anyway."

"You've hardly known me for two hours. And most of that two hours were spent in silence."

"Still…"

"You're naïve. A downright fool." Arthur said with a sense of finality, and thoroughly expected to be kicked out of the car right then for his attitude.

Alfred, ever the mystery, just proceeded to pout for the rest of the car trip until they pulled into a driveway. The house wasn't huge, but quaint and in a decent neighborhood. Alfred turned off the engine and stepped out of the car, Arthur following suit. He felt out of place is such a warm, inviting area.

"Well, we're here." Alfred said, probably just to fill up the silence.

Arthur simply nodded and held a hand out, motioning for him to lead the way. Alfred took Arthur's hand and led him inside, the intimate touch causing the faintest of blushes to bloom on Arthur's cheeks. Arthur kept his eyes trained on the ground as he was led through the house to (what he assumed was) a bedroom.

Alfred flipped on the light, and Arthur was greeted by the sight of a small room covered in posters of super-heroes and other memorabilia. The bed was decently sized, not too big or small, with a dark blue, non-descript comforter.

Alfred half sat on a desk in the corner of the room and fidgeted nervously, "So, how do we… uhm… you know. Do this."

The poor boy was so incredibly inept—it was almost charming, "However you want to."

Alfred stayed silent, so Arthur simply rolled his eyes and assumed he'd be taking the lead here. He stripped off the shirt he was wearing, and tossed it aside callously. He stalked towards the younger slowly, whose eyes had widened.

The boy reached out to caress Arthur sides, eyes still the size of dinner plates, "Christ… how are you… this is so unhealthy…" Alfred continued frowning, tracing the outline of each visible rib, "If you're this thin, how do you even have the energy to stand up? How often do you eat?"

Arthur hated this kind of pity, and fidgeted under the boy's hands, "Don't worry about it." He batted the hands away, but Alfred was persistent.

"No way! You live like this? You're just skin and bones. There's no way anyone could find this attractive."

Arthur frowned deeply, "Beg pardon?" was the irritable response. He crossed his arms.

On a roll now, the boy continued, "And the bags under your eyes! It looks like you haven't slept for months."

"Thank you for going over all my flaws."

"And you keep coughing! Are you sick?" he reached a hand out to touch his forehead, "You feel warm."

Arthur was growing frustrated (mostly because he had known about the slight fever before hand—it had been hanging around for a while). He slapped Alfred's hand away, "Christ! Are we fucking or not?" he snapped.

"I don't know now… do you have AIDS? I mean, you look _really_ sick." Alfred asked hesitantly.

Arthur was exasperated; he was almost tempted to cry, if that weren't completely immature, "No. I don't. I get checked every week for it." He replied shortly.

"What did the doctors say about the cough and fever?"

"Bugger me!" Arthur exclaimed, "They don't check that kind of thing! They're only concerned about STDs, and I'm clean. So can we just have sex so I can pay my bills?"

Alfred had begun to stand while Arthur had been talking, and grabbed the smaller by the shoulders. Arthur had fully expected to be slapped, but was surprised when he was lifted off the ground suddenly, one arm under his knees and one under his shoulders, and was cradled in the younger's arms. A bright red flush broke out on his cheeks, "What in God's name are you doing?" he yelped. The boy was surprisingly strong, or Arthur was lighter than he thought, because he appeared to have no trouble lifting the Briton off the ground.

Arthur was held there for a moment, his head tucked into the crook of the boy's neck. Alfred muttered a quiet curse to himself, then dumped Arthur suddenly on the bed, which was fluffy and comfortable. Well, at least he would be contented during sex.

Alfred slowly removed the heels Arthur was wearing as if he were precious bone china. Arthur had expected the leather shorts he was wearing to go next, but he felt the blanket being moved under him, "What are you doing _now_? I swear to God, you Americans are the strangest lot I've yet to encounter!"

The blanket that had been moved from under him was then thrown over him, "You need rest more than sex." Alfred stated.

"The hell? No. I need _money_ more than rest." Arthur countered, sitting up. Alfred promptly pushed him down.

Alfred slipped in the bed next to him, wrapping an arm around him to keep him secure, "No, stop moving!'

Arthur wriggled in his grasp, but it only succeeded in making him more exhausted. Eventually, he stopped, and with an exasperated sigh, he said, "You're not going to let me go, are you?"

Alfred grinned, "Nope. You're going to stay here, and you're going to sleep."

Arthur coughed, then huffed, "Fine… bloody git…" he mumbled, and Alfred nuzzled him, "Why are you doing this?"

"Because I'm a hero. That's why."

Arthur snorted indignantly, but fell asleep minutes afterwards when Alfred refused to respond, snoring softly, and Alfred rose only to turn off the light. He slipped back into the bed and pulled the mite of a man back into his arms. Arthur snuggled into the warmth with a small, hacking cough, which only served to unnerve Alfred more.

There was something different about the man that was cradled in his arms, far too warm, and yet shivering slightly in his sleep. He seemed far too… intelligent for this kind of career. There had been a spark of brilliance in those offended emerald orbs.

He should just turn the man in—get him off the streets and get some help. More food, too… it felt like holding a skeleton.

Well, maybe he'd be a bit better in the morning. He snuggled closer against the uncomfortable body next to him and slowly drifted into sleep.


	5. Chapter Four: Start of Something

(A/N: Again, I thank you all for the kind reviews. Updates will come a bit slower now, but rest assured, I will not give up on this story! I just need my readers, if they truly enjoy it, to keep me encouraged to finish it during the holiday season. My college classes are going to be a bit difficult this semester (with taking higher level biology classes, as well as higher level English and (thankfully) basic mathematics), but I've worked hard on the few chapters I've completed in this. Please let me know what you think when you're done reading! )

**Love is This, Also Love is That**

**Chapter Four: Start of Something**

Arthur woke up feeling unusually comfortable, if not overheated. He curled into whatever was the source of warmth, finding it pleasantly scented—like fresh charcoal and sugar cane, maybe some cologne mixed in. He tried to open his eyes but they were insistent on staying closed. A rather violent cough broke the silence, and the sweet smelling, warm thing moved.

"Ugh…"it burbled sleepily, then he felt something touch his face, "God, his fever feels worse… I wonder if I have any of my mom's old nursing school books…"

The person kept touching his face, "Hey… are you awake?" he asked, hand gently moving to his shoulder.

Arthur hummed in response, but still didn't open his eyes.

"How do you feel?"

Another noncommittal hum.

"How long have you had the fever?"

"What time is it?" Arthur finally asked, cracking a sleepy green eye open.

"Uhm, like… I dunno. Nine?"

"AM?"

Alfred nodded in response, and Arthur barely restrained the urge to groan.

"Wake me up in ten hours, then talk to me."

Alfred seemed put off by this, "Ten hours? It'll be like… seven at night then."

"Exactly. I want as much sleep as I can get. Now, unless you're kicking me out, kindly bugger off."

"You didn't answer my question."

The prostitute actually did groan, "What question? You've only asked about fifty of them."

"I asked three." Alfred returned, a bit of smugness in his voice.

Arthur sat up abruptly, trying to ignore how badly his head began to spin. He coughed harshly, his body feeling both too cold and too hot at the same time. Alfred looked at him with concern, "I'm fine." He clarified, "How far away are we from where you picked me up?"

Alfred seemed to think for a moment, "Uhh… a couple miles, I think."

Arthur swung his legs over the side of the bed, "Well, I'd better start walking then." He commented, mostly too himself, "Thanks for letting me sleep in your bed for the night." He stood, despite the other's protests.

"You can't walk that far!" Alfred exclaimed, waving his arms around rather comically.

"And why not?" Arthur returned, a bit bitterly. Honestly—he wasn't getting paid, so why should he stay? He began gathering his shoes and shirt, slipping each of them back on with only minor difficulty.

Alfred pouted, "You're sick and running at least a mild fever, if not worse!"

Arthur, in all honesty, did feel like crap, but he had forgotten what wellness felt like at this point. He wanted nothing more than the dull, wet ache in his chest to disappear, along with the heat that settled down his spine and the back of his neck, but there was nothing that could be done about it. He didn't have the finances to visit a proper doctor.

"Thanks for caring, but I honestly don't." Arthur returned with a weak glare. He tried to walk out of the room, head held high, ignoring the boy's objections behind him.

"Wait!" a hand latched on to the Briton's wrist tightly, pulling him back much more easily than he should have, "Can I at least drive you back? You'll break your ankle in those shoes, or pass out by the road, or something."

Arthur stared at the babbling young man, emerald eyes searching sky blue, "Why do you _care_? You don't know me, my life, anything." 

"I have to know someone well to be nice to them?" Alfred frowned, "Ever hear of 'random acts of kindness', dude?"

The Briton scoffed, "Fairy tales, love. I stopped believing in those years ago." He answered, trying not to feel uncomfortable by the odd look in the younger man's eyes. It was such an earnest look; it was painful for the elder, even with years of tough skin.

He felt himself be jerked roughly into Alfred's solid body, and for a second, he was disoriented by the way the boy held him almost suffocatingly close to his body, crushing him with his arms, "Wh-what are you doing, you wanker?"

"I'm hugging you. You seem like you really just need one."

The comment made Arthur's face color a bright shade of red, and his heart quicken in his chest. He struggled only a moment in the other grasp before relaxing, sagging bonelessly against the taller male.

Now that he had given up his struggle, he could see how couples enjoyed this kind of closeness—it was comforting, in a sense, having someone support you, both physically and emotionally. He almost raised his own arms to return the embrace, but thought better of it and let them hang loosely and awkwardly by his sides.

The taller pulled back, much to Arthur's chagrin, but his hands had slid to rest on Arthur's shoulders, looking into his face, searching for something that the elder couldn't name. He could feel his face blazing sunburn red under the scrutiny, and pulled emerald eyes away from the other's face.

"Arthur."

"Uhm… no, dude. It's Alfred." The American boy laughed slightly, and the smaller turned back to glare at him again.

"No, you git. That's my name." the Briton hissed, but there was no malice behind the tone.

Alfred's face was dumbfounded for a moment, a blush blooming on his own cheeks (much to Arthur's pleasure), before a bright grin split his face. Arthur looked up, intending to only spend a moment looking at the other, and was lost in the beauty of the other's expression; it was such a rare look around the people he associated himself with, and he felt his heart skip several beats.

He coughed, at it seemed to bring them both to reality, "I need to get home now." Arthur stated blandly, trying not to let the disappointment (why did he feel that?) leak through his tone.

The boy jerked slightly, as if surprised, "Y-yeah…" he stuttered slightly, letting the older's hand go, "Wait here a second."

Arthur raised a thick brow, and saw the other go into a drawer near his bedside, shuffling around loudly for a few minutes before retrieving a wad of bills. He walked over to Arthur and slipped the money into his hand, "I was saving up to get the new Call of Duty game, but you need the money more than I need another video game."

Arthur looked genuinely confused, "But… we didn't do any—mmph!"

Alfred had promptly silenced the other by putting his lips over the other's mouth, effectively shutting the other up. It wasn't passionate or sexual. It was the simple touching of lips, and it made Arthur's heart beat so much faster in his chest with the innocence of it.

It lasted all of a second, and Alfred was smirking down at the silent, shorter one, "Take it. Buy yourself something—better food, a jacket, medicine. I don't care."

Arthur was simply gaping like a fish, trying to work up appropriate words to fit the situation. Alfred chuckled and shook his head, "Well, I guess you should get back now."

Arthur was walked back to the car with a hand in between his shoulder blades. Not much was said the ride back, but one thought kept circulating through both their heads.

_Something had just begun…_


	6. Interlude One: Beginning of the End

(A/N: Well, we've got the back story here! It's a bit dark and triggery, but this whole story is dark and triggery, haha. No rape though. I will never write rape. )

**Love is This, Also Love is That**

**Interlude One: The Beginning of the End**

Arthur had a mostly normal childhood.

He had two parents who loved each other dearly. They lived in a cute little village several miles from London, filled with middle class families and children from all over the world.

He wasn't bitter or sarcastic then—he was youthful and bright, full of promise. The other parents on the street thought he was a darling, and there was never a lack of playmates around to fill his time. He was loved and looked after.

His brothers, or half-brothers, as he was often reminded, were the only source of trouble in his otherwise sparkling childhood. More specifically, his oldest brother, Scott.

Each of them were two years apart, except for the two twins, and Arthur who was six years younger than all of them. Scott was twelve years older than him, and full of bitter resentment for the child. While the others tossed hateful words and nothing more, Scott threw punches and weapons.

The first time Scott tried to hurt him physically was when he was five years old.

Arthur had been attempting to descend the stairs when he felt a rough hand on his back. The hand pushed hard, and Arthur quickly grabbed the railing, but he hit his side loudly and painfully on the polished wood of the staircase.

He cried as any six year old would, and looked to his brother for sympathy, not realizing that he had been the one to push him. He was far too trusting as a child, even when Scott laughed at his tears until their shared father came and glared at the elder of the two, who shrugged innocently and walked proudly back to his room.

His father gathered Arthur into his arms and carried him down the stairs. Arthur fell asleep to the sounds of soft assurances of love and affection. The wrong done to him was long forgotten as he spent the rest of his day snuggled into the crook of his father's neck.

The fights stayed at a minimum then—Scott wasn't home often, as he left for school in Scotland and the family decided to move far away across the sea. Arthur enjoyed the long spaces of time away from his brother, and likewise, enjoyed America. The cities seems polished and clean in their newness to his eyes. Everything was bright and sunny, unlike the soggy streets of England.

Everything seemed fine then. Arthur excelled in school, was involved in many activities, and even had a few friends. Things were wonderful, and the Kirklands began to relax.

However, whenever Scott would visit, Arthur would develop mysterious bruises on his arms, legs, and chest.

However, Scott never dared to make him bleed. Bruises were easy to hide, and even then they hadn't gone unnoticed. Their shared father was not a dumb man, and had often tried to coax a confession about the bruises out of any of his sons. None of them said a word—Arthur out of fear, his other brothers out of respect, and Scott out of self-preservation.

However, Scott became confident in his youngest brother's silence, and decided to step his attacks up a notch.

Their parents had just run out to the store, and weren't expected back for another hour. Arthur had taken it upon himself to do the dishes, since he gave up trying to cook, to do something useful. He liked at least _feeling_ like he could help in some way, though he mostly was told (by his brothers) that he was just an obstacle.

He was suddenly hyper alerted to footsteps behind him. He quickly turned around, only to see Scott glaring him down, a switchblade in hand.

"Scott, what are you doing?" Arthur asked, his heart sinking into his stomach as he saw a smile break out on his brother's pale face. He took in the appearance of the other in an instant, realizing just _how_ unstable his brother looked. His red hair was unkempt and wild, and dark, bruise like circles made their homes underneath his eyes. His skin was ghost white, giving him an eerie looking glow in the lights of the kitchen.

Arthur had barely enough time to gasp and fling himself out of the way as Scott raced forward and the blade snagged his skin.

The pain of flesh being torn open, even if it was only a surface wound, made a scream erupt from the younger's mouth, and he stumbled to grip onto the marble countertop. He held the torn skin near his neck with his hand as his brother grinned down at him.

"How does that feel, you little shit?" Scott's face was menacing—green eyes wild and ferocious, grin insane, "Too bad—I missed your jugular."

Arthur was stunned into silence, just staring up at his elder brother in terror. Scott continued, "It's a shame you were ever born." The tone was eerily casual, "I wish I could have had the courage to kill you when you were a baby and couldn't fight back."

Scott stalked forward again, twirling the knife around between his fingers. He extended it forward to perch on the bridge of Arthur's nose, "I _hate_ you. I'm going to kill you one day. I'm going to free my father under the spell you and your witch of a mother put him under."

Arthur shook his head, mouth opening and closing in an attempt to form words. It didn't work, and Scott pulled the knife back and walked to the back door, "Remember—don't say a word." And then he was gone.

Arthur stayed frozen for a few seconds before he scrambled to get a rag to clean up the blood on his skin. He hissed as the terrycloth hurt the torn edges of flesh. He was dizzy from the adrenaline and sunk to the floor once again, desperately holding back scared tears.

The sounds of fighting and then whimpering had alerted Arthur's second oldest brother, who was easily the kindest of the lot. While he had been cruel to his youngest brother in his youth, age and employment in education had made him softer towards the outcast.

However, he was never one to interfere with Scott's abuse. He was too scared himself of his elder brother's obvious temper, and rather it be directed and anyone other than himself.

Still, there was nothing stopping him from picking up the pieces left behind, and trying to console the hurt boy. He walked out of his room once he realized Scott was gone, and quickly made his way downstairs towards the soft sounds, "Arthur?" Caerwyn asked, cautiously stepping into the kitchen and kneeling next to the boy on the floor.

The boy in question quickly looked up, fear still crystal clear in forest green eyes. A surge of pity ran cold in Caerwyn's veins when he saw the other's crimson stained clothes.

"Don't tell father," Arthur simply said, and Caerwyn couldn't help but agree with the desperate sounding undertone.

They cleaned up the trace blood spatters on the linoleum, and Caerwyn helped disinfect and bandage Arthur's wound in silence. When the slamming door signaled that their parents were home, they quickly hid the bloodied rags and clothes underneath Arthur's bed until they could dispose of them.

They never told his parents, though they were obviously very suspicious and very scared. Arthur and Scott were never allowed to be alone in the same room after that—Arthur always had his father at his side when Scott would visit.

The true catalyst for his downfall would come a scarce two years later.

**End Interlude One**

(A/N: I know this was short, and I'm very sorry. This was incredibly hard for me to write, as abuse is an issue that I am passionately against. However, it's a necessary evil in this story. Arthur's past will be told in two or three chapters, which will come at different intervals. I'll release a few more chapters of the normal story before I'll go back in time again

I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday! Thank you to all my wonderful reviewers and watchers as well!)


	7. Chapter Five: Seeing You Again

( A/N: I'm not very proud of this chapter, but I felt that a more lighthearted chapter was needed to break all the tension and depression in this story. Any pointers or observations on how I could later improve this chapter are much appreciated! I hope you enjoy regardless.

Also, a cameo of the main characters of the sequel to this story, which revolves around Matthew and Francis. )

**Love is This, Also Love is That**

**Chapter Five: Seeing You Again**

Three years had passed since Arthur had last seen Alfred, and the night was just another hazy memory locked in the back of his mind.

The night before had been an utter disaster that left him in an extreme amount of discomfort that day. He could barely keep his eyes open, and the pain made the corners of his vision blur. He leaned against the lamppost, and only then realized how unusually cold it was out.

He'd gotten sick again, which was not uncommon for him. He had a near nonexistent immune system, it seemed, and it was only getting worse with time. For a week now, he'd been battling a mild flu virus, or something. It was enough to stop up his nose, make his throat raw, and make his limbs feel like led. All of this was on top of the pain that raced up his spine every time he moved.

He felt like utter shit, and he must have looked it too.

Another one of his kind walked by—a relatively unnoticeable boy with dull blond hair but vibrant blue-almost-violet eyes. He watched him for a second, linking eyes with him for several moments before asking in a shy voice, "Are you alright?"

Arthur wanted to snap at the boy, who couldn't haven't been older than a teenager, that _Did it fucking look like he was all right? If he had been all right, he wouldn't be sitting on a street corner in goddamned high heels and too-short shorts and freezing his ass off in the middle of the summer._

Instead he answered with a noncommittal, "Yes, love. I'm fine."

The boy seemed unconvinced, and his facial expression reminded of someone else, "You look sick… maybe you shouldn't work for the night…" his voice was almost too quiet to hear.

"Darling, I wouldn't work ever if that was the case." He sighed, and the younger boy frowned slightly.

"Uhm… well…" the younger boy was having trouble thinking of a response when a car pulled up.

The car window rolled down to reveal a man with longish silky blonde hair and stubble lining his chin, "Mon cher~ I've been looking every where for yo—Oh. Hello Angleterre." The man stated, and Arthur glared at the familiar face.

"Francis. What brings you here?" he asked, and noticed that the tanzanite eyes of the younger boy had sharpened with exasperation.

Francis flipped his hair, "I was looking for mon petit Mathieu~" he chirped, giving a smoldering look towards the smallish boy behind Arthur.

"I've told you—you have to pay…" the boy, Matthew, commented.

Arthur couldn't help but pity the boy. Arthur himself had once found himself the object of the Frenchman's lust, though Francis had never looked at him with _that_ kind of emotion in his eyes. It made the Briton feel slightly sick to his stomach and more that a little jealous.

"Mais, mon petit chou, je t'aim—" in the middle of Francis' sentence, the boy had begun to walk off briskly, much to the Frenchman's chagrin, "Ah… I will find him later."

"Not if he's lucky." Arthur returned.

"So cruel… you never change. Well… you certainly _look_ different. Is that a wrinkle on your cheek I see?" Francis quipped, and Arthur glared.

"Fuck off, frog." He hissed, and Francis laughed as Arthur self-consciously raised a hand to cover his cheek.

"You don't mean that." The man chuckled, cerulean eyes locking on pissed green, "So. Have you found someone yet?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Arthur snapped.

"It means, has a customer stolen your heart yet?"

Arthur rolled his eyes, "You damn French airhead—always spouting that romance nonsense. Have you realized what career I'm in?"

"Oui, mon Mathieu is one of your kind, too." Francis had a dreamy, far away look in his eyes that made Arthur simultaneously want to vomit and punch the shit out of the frog, "We are in love, and he is going to leave this business and live with me~!"

"He obviously hates you."

Francis clicked his tongue in disbelief, "Non! He is simply… nervous."

"He seemed annoyed." Arthur covered a snicker behind his hand.

"Shut up, rosbif!" the Frenchman scolded, glaring cerulean daggers at the prostitute, who was relatively unfazed by the look, "He is in love with me too! … He is just having trouble realizing it."

"Mhm."

The Frenchman was obviously fed up with Arthur attitude, and flipped his hair, "Whatever. I am going to catch up with mon Mathieu. Au revoire," Francis rolled up the car window and began driving off again, ignoring the middle finger salute the Briton gave him as he drove off.

He was consumed by the silence, and let out a sigh. He wanted to so much to sit down, just to rest a bit. He always felt a bit unnerved when the Frenchman came around and more than a little exhausted.

His eyes slipped shut against his will, and he began to doze against the lap post, shivering slightly in the darkness. Despite that, he felt strangely comfortable, even though he was still standing and the metal against his arm felt like ice. A small sigh escaped his lips and he was just tipping over when a voice sounded close to his ear.

"Sir, it's illegal to loiter here." It was commanding and strong, with a hint of an accent and familiarity in it. Probably an old customer.

Arthur opened an eye begrudgingly and turned to look at the man, dressed in the blue uniform of the local police, "Sorry," he mumbled, "I never saw a sign saying such a thing. I'll move." He didn't let the upset in his voice go unnoticed.

The officer was silent as the prostitute stretched in preparation to move, "… Arthur?" he asked finally, and the man in question lifted his head.

He lifted a wide brow at the unknown man, "How do you know my name?" he asked, an irritated and confused look on his face. Then panic seized his features—what if this man intended to arrest him? He'd never been brought in before, despite the fact what he did was illegal.

The officer looked sad, "Y-you don't remember me?" he asked, tone similar to that of a put-out child.

"Should I? You realize I have many customers to attend to. I can't put one on a pedestal over the others." Arthur spoke quickly, and started to walk away when the officer grabbed his wrist.

"Wait! Three years ago! I got lost near this area of town, and you came to my car window. We got food together and then I took you to my house and you yelled at me for doing that. We didn't have sex or anything, but… you don't remember?"

Arthur furrowed his brow, trying to recall any vague memories about a situation like that. Fuzzy images appeared in his head that related to the man's story—a foreign waitress, Superman posters, being comfortably warm—but one memory stood out above all of them.

It was that of a gentle, loving kiss that hadn't once been repeated since.

His heart began to race in his chest, and he tried to pull his arm away, "L-let me go…" he was only able to get out a small whisper, the unknown feeling in his chest seeming to constrict his lungs.

"You do remember!" the officer brightened, despite the absolutely terrified look on the prostitute's face, "I've thought about you so many times since then, you know."

The words didn't put ease to Arthur's mind, and he continued to struggle, "I-I need to go! Please, release me!" he begged, and the officer's face fell.

Blue met green for a long time, and the officer shook his head, "No."

"Wh-what do you mean, 'no'? Are you going to arrest me?" Arthur challenged, turning in the other's grip to look him in the face, "If you are, then you should just bloody hurry up and—mmph!"

Arthur's angry rant was cut off when the policeman connected their lips and effectively shut the British man up. Arthur was stiff for the first few moments, but eventually melted into the affectionate gesture.

They spent several moments locked in the kiss before Arthur noticed that he felt lightheaded. It was probably because he forgot to breathe—after all, it had been three years since his last closed mouth kiss, and, admittedly, forgot how to do it. He'd just been so caught up that he hadn't realized the way his lungs had begun to burn with the lack of oxygen.

Being sick again probably didn't make matters any better.

The kiss was abruptly broken off as the officer realized his partner was becoming less responsive, "Arthur? Are you alright?"

Arthur's legs buckled beneath him, the strong arms of the man catching him before his skull could collide with the unforgiving concrete. He could vaguely hear panicked but calm reassurances, muffled by inattention.

As the world went black around him, a name came to mind.

"Alfred…"


	8. Chapter Six: Waking from the Dream

_(A/N: Sorry for the wait with this chapter! The ending will be coming fairly soon—I don't expect this story to run for too much longer, unless a burst of inspiration hits me. _

_Thank you for all the wonderful reviews! They always brighten my day. I always grin like a lunatic when I see them._

_Another special thanks to Hannaadi88, my beta reader! Your strict and insightful corrections to this chapter are very much appreciated. All mistakes left in this chapter are my own doing._

_Please enjoy! )_

**Love is This, Also Love is That**

**Chapter Six: Waking from the Dream**

The dead weight in Alfred's arms was more than disconcerting**. **As he shifted the body in his arms,he was thankful he had the time to panic. He'd gotten off duty an hour ago after a relatively long and boring shift. This occurrence jarred his system, sending his nervous system into a tingling flurry.

Truth be told, he had assumed the prostitute had been Arthur the moment he had beganto approach**, **the accent had solidifying his assumptions. He was washed in a plethora of emotions—relief, pity, confusion, and most of all, affection—despite the other's protests.

He had returned the kiss, after all.

However, now was not a time to be reflecting on his emotions. He had an unconscious hooker in his arms with a fever and he genuinely didn't know what to do. Should he take Arthur to the hospital or just back to his own home? Well, he wasn't leaving him out in the cold.

He hefted Arthur into his arms just as easily as the last time and cradled the smaller man close to body. Arthur's spine dug painfully into the crook of his arm and his hip pushed sharply into Alfred's ribs, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

As he slipped Arthur into the passenger side of the car, he couldn't help but hear his mother shrieking obscenities in his ear about his poor actions. She had become his conscious in recent years. Her constant yelling and nagging of "class, morals, social standing" was always ringing in the back of his ears. If she knew the profession of the man in his car, she would be throwing a fit. It would be nothing short of throwing tables and he could practically feel the spit flying in his face with her rage.

Oh well.

He buckled the other's seat belt as he remained comatose and put the seat back so that Arthur could lay as flat as possible. He took a moment to admire the sleeping facecoated in foundation and rouge, but still so lovely underneath. If possible, the man looked even more worn outthan he had before.

The night Alfred had spent with the sick prostitute remained one of his more vivid memories, even after all those years that had passed.

He had to admit, it was a bit silly of himself to dwell on a single night and a single kiss that had happened three years prior, and with a man who had kissed so many others before him. Still, in remembrance of the one chaste press of lips they shared, he would put a hand to his mouth and hope he could find "Arthur" one day again.

He went through his police training, striving to be the best of all. He wanted to be a man who upheld the law and protected the innocent. Yet, all the while he learned to enforce the law, he remembered the one time he had rebelled,though he hadn't truly fought against his morals. He recalled the adrenaline pumping through his veins when he let the dull looking man into his caras well as the pride he felt when he saw those jeweled eyes brighten in thanks when he had done a good deed.

Yet, he also recalled the dead look in the glossy green eyes when he first picked the man up, the emaciated figureand the constant cough thatthe man seemed to have. He feared he might havefaced a more tragic fate—it was not far fetchedto think the man could have died slowly of pneumoniaor some other disease.

Even murder had been a fear Alfred resigned himself to. Insane people were everywhere, and no one missed a lonesome prostitute.

But now Arthur was safein his car. Although the older looked worse for wea**r**, his chest still rose with air and blood still pumped through his veins.

Arthur shifted slightly with a soft moan of discomfort, and Alfred's attention snapped to the source of the noise.Jeweled eyes opened slightly, dazed, and tried to take in his surroundings**. **"Where…?"

"Morning, sleepyhead**,**" Alfred joked**. **"You're in my car. I'm taking you back to my place, and this time, I'm not going to let you leave so easily."

Arthur didn't appear to take in the words completely, instead opting to give Alfred a rather confused and hazy look, "… wha' did you jus' go on about?" the Briton slurred, looking as if he was still trying to figure things out.

Alfred just chuckled and kissed the man's clammy forehead**. **"Don't worry about it, Artie."

Arthur made a face that was obviously displeased, but too tired to speak or act upon his annoyance.

Alfred walked to the other side of the car and tried to still the shaking of his hands. Why was he so nervous? He took several deep breaths and looked to the passenger's seatwhere Arthur had already fallen fast asleep.

The drive back to his house was longer than Alfred had remembered it to be, doubtlessbecause of the growing anxiety that had sunk into the pit of his stomach like iron.

He gingerly lifted the emaciated figure out of the car, jostling him enough so that Arthur woke up, but was still relatively dazed. He was quiet until Alfred brought him into the house, where he finally came back to awareness.

"Bloody hell!" he screeched, thrashing in Alfred's arms**. **"What the blazing fuck do you think you're doing? Unhand me!"

Arthur landed ungracefully on his behind and glared bitterly up at Alfred**. **"See here! Just because we may have shared a single night together, itdoesn't give you the right to kidnap me!" he ranted.

Alfred did his best to look apologetic, though he was more annoyed with the outburst. Didn't the other man realize he was trying to help him? Be his hero and save him from the underground world he lived in?

"I didn't kidnap you!" Alfred countereddefensively**. **"You fainted while we were kissing, so I took you back here. You're running a fever again."

Arthur's face flushed deeperas he picked himself off the floor. He wobbled slightly as he stoodand Alfred reached out to steady him.Arthur batted away the hands that reached for him, bracing himself against the wall.

"Yes, yes, I know about the bloody fever. I have one every other week. You could have just left me there. I would have woken up in time, you know," Arthur spat, green eyes venomous.

Alfred shook his head, "Why would I do that? You're sick."

Arthur shot him a cross look, both confused and angry**, **"I don't understand you at all. What do you want?"

"I want to save you." Alfred's answer was deadpan as he looked the other straight in the eyes.

Arthur was silent for a moment. His mouth was formed into a small 'o' as he tried to make sense of the wordsbefore breaking out into peals of laughter. He held his sides as he continued to laugh almost maniacally**. **"Save me? _Save_ me? I have never heard such a ridiculous notion in my entire life!"

Alfred calmly waited for the other to stop laughing, and was only mildly surprised to hear the chuckles and giggles devolve into broken sobs. The younger of the two enveloped the smaller into his arms.

Arthur pushed against the other's chest weakly, before clinging onto the fabric of Alfred's shirt, "You git. Don't you realize?" he asked, voice cracking ever so slightly, "It's too late for me to be saved."

"It's never too late." Alfred insisted, but Arthur shook his head against Alfred's chest.

Arthur barked a hollow laugh**, **You know nothing about me."

Alfred took a breath and finally swallowed enough courage to say the thing that had been on his mind for years.

"I know that you're too special to me to live the life that you do."


End file.
